


All The World's A Stagecoach

by SouthernLynxx



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Is Amused, Attempt at Humor, Enemies to Friends, John Is A Hopeless Fool, M/M, Oral Sex, Random Extras - Freeform, Requires some suspension of disbelief, Stagecoach Driver AU, Unresolved Sexual Tension, send help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:35:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27896161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernLynxx/pseuds/SouthernLynxx
Summary: “Don’t worry, cowboy,” Arthur rumbles from above, apparently taking pity on him. John doesn’t know which he detests more. “You’ll get free long before any law shows up, but it’ll be long after I’m gone.”Arthur is a contract stagecoach driver. John is the outlaw who keeps trying to rob him. But it's all just a matter ofpride.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 21
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this random idea struck and seemed to get a bit of interest on tumblr, so I knuckled down to get it written. It does require some suspension of disbelief, and I'm sure you'll see why :') 
> 
> I tried to pad out the story a bit more rather than just hopping straight from A to B, so I hope it doesn't feel too rushed. Also I don't feel I have as good an understanding of John's character as Arthur's, as I only have RDR2 as reference, so hopefully he's not too out of character!
> 
> Finished fic will be approx 8-9k and 3 chapters

The sun isn’t yet cresting the horizon when John scuffs out the smouldering remains of his campfire. It’s dark still, but the hues of deep blue and purple that precede the sunrise carry enough light to give the broken down camp a once over. His tent and bedroll are already packed, and only the fire ring and a few discarded tins tell of him having ever been there at all. 

Satisfied, John pulls himself up onto Old Boy’s saddle and guides the horse out of the trees and onto the dirt track that served as a road. With a click of his tongue, he urges the stallion into a canter. The darkened plains of New Hanover roll by quickly, the rocky outcrops and grassy hills blend with the dark sky, and animals vanish quickly at the sound of hooves, only the briefest glint of light in their eyes telling John they were ever there.

Before long they’re nearing the border between The Heartlands and Scarlett Meadows, and he crosses the dry riverbed of Dewberry Creek with renewed vigilance. Upon cresting the opposite bank, he reins Old Boy to a stop at the side of the road, considering the area in the faint light of the imminent sunrise. 

He didn’t have very long, if the disgruntled ex-employee he’d met the night before had been telling the truth. The stagecoach bound for St. Denis would be along soon, transporting antiques through the night for auction later that day. Not that John had much interest in dusty old paintings and chipped busts. It was the jewels that had his attention; recently authenticated and due to be auctioned off to the high-flyers of St. Denis high-society. John certainly wasn’t going to lose sleep over alleviating their pockets of a few more riches.

The distant sound of hooves has John turning in his saddle, muttering under his breath. They were earlier than he’d anticipated, but they were still a way off and this was as straightforward as a stagecoach hold-up was ever gonna get. 

“C’mon, boy,” he murmurs, urging the silver dark bay up onto a grassy verge dotted with trees. It gives him the high-ground advantage, and from this new perspective he can see the clouds of dust kicked up by the approaching stagecoach and its escorts.

Covering the lower half of his face with his bandana in preparation, he pulls his rifle from its boot and peers through the scope. He can’t make out the finer details of the riders in the low light, but he can at least tell his odds. A hired gun sits alongside the stagecoach driver, and four more ride at points around the vehicle. 

He aims his gun at the carriage driver’s chest. Breathes. Fires.

The gunshot roars in the early morning quiet, startling nearby birds into flight. The driver jerks and tumbles off the side of the wagon. Five more shots and the hired guns fall one after the other.

There’s no time to waste as the carriage continues at a renewed pace, the four horses drawing the vehicle whinnying in fright as they pass. 

“Hyah!” John shouts, turning Old Boy in a tight circle and making chase. The stampede of hooves matches the almost painful pounding of his heart against his chest as he nears the stagecoach. Slipping one foot from the stirrup, he braces it on the saddle, leg folded tensely beneath him. 

Wind whipping his hair across his face, his expression twists in concentration.

3...2…

He throws himself towards the coach, winded as he hits the side and scrabbles for the rail. “Fuck,” he grunts, trying to avoid sticking his boot in the trundling carriage wheel as he finds a safe foothold and hauls himself into the driver’s seat.

“Woah!” He barks, seizing the reins and pulling back until the horses begin to slow to an eventual stop, tossing their heads and stamping their hooves with bellowing snorts. “That’s it, good horses,” he praises, dropping the reins and tugging down his bandana as he slumps back against the coach with a pleased huff. “Well, I’d say that couldn’t have gone better,” he grins, hopping down the opposite side of the wagon. 

A movement catches his eye and John’s pistol is drawn in an instant, eyes widening as he processes what exactly he’s seeing. 

The driver. The driver of the damn stagecoach is clinging onto the side of the wagon, with his shot up arm, no less, as his other points a pistol between John’s eyes. 

“Sorry to curtail your celebrations there, cowboy,” the man grunts, his voice at least three octaves lower than John’s own distinctive rasp. 

“I’m a patient feller,—” a lie —“I can wait to see you off.” 

There’s a heavy tension between them as they stand in their stalemate. His finger flexes on the trigger when the driver cautiously lowers himself to the ground, his injured arm trembling with the effort of keeping him suspended. John can’t help but be impressed by the way the man’s focus, nor his gun, ever wavers, especially when blood continues to steadily seep down the blue cotton of his shirt from what looked like a clean through-wound.

With the sun now peering over the horizon, casting a golden pink light across the plains, John is able to make out more of the would-be hero. He knew from his brief glimpse in the scope that the man was broad, but he’s tall, too, perhaps just shorter than John. Lengthy stubble darkens a strong jaw, and beneath thick furrowed eyebrows, cast into shadow by the brim of his hat, two bright blue eyes watch him intently.

“I quite liked those boys,” the man says after a tense silence. John’s eyebrow twitches up in question, surprised. “Risk of the job, friend,” he replies, feeling his impatience grow as the seconds slip by. He should simply pull the trigger and end this now. “Put the gun down and walk away; ain’t no trinkets worth your life.” 

“Deliverin’ these ‘trinkets’ is my livelihood, and I ain’t lost a delivery yet. Ain’t lookin’ to start now.” 

John blows out a breath. “Then it appears we got a problem.”

He can’t stop his eyes flicking down, following the motion of the man’s tongue as it wets his lower lip - a nervous action? He jerks his eyes back up and tightens his grip on his pistol when the man shifts. To John’s surprise, he turns his hands up in surrender, pistol held loose in his fingers. 

“How ‘bout a deal?” The man offers, voice oddly conversational. John almost laughs, wondering if the man is irreparably stupid or more courageous than any man he’s ever met. 

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be making deals, partner.” But even as he says it, a part of John is inexplicably intrigued. “What kinda deal?”

The man’s mouth curls ever so slightly at the corner, and John tries to ignore the little distracted part of his mind that notes how handsome the man is when he smiles.

“If you can still drive off with that coach after I’ve sucked your brains out through your dick, I won’t even try an’ stop you.”

He says it so casually, in that deep, rumbling pitch, that John briefly wonders if he’s started violently hallucinating. 

_“What?”_ John chokes out, and it’s slightly more strangled than he’d care to admit. 

The man has the gall to look amused as he shrugs his shoulders with an air of nonchalance, and John feels a prickle of annoyance. “An’ what’s to stop me shooting you an’ just takin’ the coach?” he demands, wanting to remind this stranger just who had who at gunpoint. 

There’s a pause as the man seems to consider John’s question. “...Nothin’,” he concedes at last. “But, the way I see it, why jus’ take the coach when you can get a blow out of it too? A mouth’s a mouth, ain’t it?” he reasons. 

For a moment, John doesn’t know what to say, but a part of him concludes that there wouldn’t be anything stopping him from taking the stagecoach either way. Finally, he scoffs. “You’re really somethin’. You must be real confident in your...abilities.” 

That smug little smile is back as the man replies, in a lower, huskier tone: “I ain’t never had no complaints.”

And John would be a liar if he said his cock didn’t twitch in response to that salacious timbre. 

John should shoot him. Shoot him, hop on the coach, and ride hard and fast until he was clear of the area. 

Instead, he finds himself agreeing. 

“Alright, partner, let’s see what you can do,” he breathes, and revels in the way the man’s pupil’s blow wide, his vibrant blue irises reduced to thin slivers of colour. The man advances, and John jabs his pistol at him, making him freeze. “Drop the gun,” he orders. The man obeys, placing his weapon on the ground. “An’ if I feel even the slightest bit of teeth, I’ll blow your brains out,” he warns. 

The man snorts. “You must have real exactin’ standards in bed,” he smirks, and John can’t even reprimand him for his cheek because the stranger is already crowding him against the side of the coach.

John’s breath hitches as rough, thick fingers press against the front of his trousers. They tease briefly with the buttons before pulling them aside and find their way around his cock, surrounding him in a hot callused grip. A tremor of _danger_ skims the knife-edge of John’s senses, but rather than propel himself away from the harm those hands could do, he blindly leaps into the pleasure they promise. 

He’s already partially hard in the man’s fist as he’s freed from the fabric confines of his pants, and he can’t contain the breathy _‘fuck’_ that escapes him when the man drops to his knees with something akin to eagerness.

“What’s your name?” He asks before he can think better of it. The man pauses for just a moment.

“Arthur,” he says. “You?”

For reasons unbeknownst to him, a little breathless, he replies: “John.”

Seemingly satisfied, Arthur’s gaze drops back to the matter at hand. He gives John’s cock two slow pumps, and the combination of his warm palm and the bite of dry friction is enough to send heat pooling in his gut. Then the man leans forward, and John has to clamp down on a shuddering gasp as Arthur’s tongue drags up the underside of his cock in one long broad stroke. He can feel the smooth wet glide, the way the muscle flexes against his skin, and the barely-there texture of his taste buds as Arthur gives the glossy exposed head of John’s cock a teasing swirl. 

He breaks contact for only a second, then the tip of John’s cock is sliding past those wet, wind-chapped lips and into the soft hot confines of Arthur’s mouth. A sweet bliss devours John completely, and through the haze descending swiftly in his mind, he concludes that Arthur’s mouth is positively _wicked_. 

He mutters a curse as Arthur slowly draws his head back, applying a teasing suction as he works his way back to the tip. With a brush of his tongue against his slit, John’s hips twitch forward, desperate to be back in the wet cavern of Arthur’s mouth. 

John would swear that Arthur’s tongue could bring the devil to his knees as it swirls over his sensitive head again, the man paying it special attention as John tries to muffle the ragged breaths the action drags from him. Then Arthur is taking him again, groaning his own pleasure as he accepts inch after inch of John into his mouth, exhaling heavily through his nose as he pauses to suck and swallow around the now fully erect length. 

All of a sudden, John is struck with this intense need to _see_.

Foregoing any self-restraint, he knocks Arthur’s hat from his head and buries his hand into the ashy blond hair now available to him. The newly unobscured view he has of those flushed lips stretched taut around his cock have John groaning openly in appreciation, and he widens his stance encouragingly. Arthur shuffles closer in response, his cock seeming to sink deeper still into the man’s pliant mouth. 

He slides effortlessly, eased by the saliva that coats his length and wets Arthur’s chin as the man settles into a leisurely rhythm, and the sight alone is almost enough to tip John over the edge. He tightens his grip in Arthur’s hair and begins to rock his hips, unable to stop himself as he feels the man moan encouragingly around him, sending heat and lust scorching through his veins as he gasps out another curse. 

He can feel it, the desperate coiling heat somewhere inside him, and his head falls back against the wagon with a light thud. He thinks he feels Arthur’s hand graze his wrist, but before he can react to it those broad hands are gripping his ass and dragging him forward with a greedy strength, burying his cock so deep in Arthur’s throat that the man’s nose brushes the coarse hair at his base. 

John doesn’t quite manage to swallow the unholy sound he makes as his hand fists in a punishing grip in Arthur’s hair and he comes without warning. 

He isn’t sure if his vision whites out or if he just looks into the sun in his daze, but he’s left breathless and trembling. By the time he’s come back to himself, he can only watch Arthur with an uncomprehending stare as the man takes his time to tuck John away and amiably wipe the remnants of spend from his lips.

Picking up his hat, Arthur casually dust it off and places it back atop his head, flattening the tousled locks courtesy of John’s hand. Then the man stands, casually caging John in again with his formidable presence.

“So, how was that, John?” Arthur breathes against his cheek, and John can’t help but notice how close Arthur keeps. He clears his throat before attempting to speak. 

“You know what you’re doin’, I’ll give you that,” he replies, relieved when his voice remains steady, though it’s softened by their proximity and a lingering contentment. “But I’ll be takin’ that carriage now, as we agreed.”

Arthur’s smirk turns devilish. 

“Sorry, partner, I’m afraid that ain’t gonna happen,” he says, holstering his pistol from the ground and pulling himself up onto the driver’s box. It takes a moment for John to process the new development, but anger sparks hotly in his chest at the impertinence.

 _“Hey!”_ John snaps, outraged. He charges forward and tries to raise his pistol, but in his next breath he finds himself hitting the ground face first, his pistol skittering under the carriage. “What the fu-” He cuts off, stunned to discover a rope had been strung between his right wrist and left ankle, sending him tumbling to the dirt. 

He looks up at the man with a snarl, his anger only inflamed when he finds Arthur watching him with an insufferably amused grin. “You lying bastard!” John snaps, and Arthur clicks his tongue. 

“Hey now, I never said which talent of mine would prevent you drivin’ off with the coach,” Arthur points out, and John realises then that he really is an idiot. 

Arthur offers him a patronising wave, and held between his index and middle finger is…John’s knife. Panicked, John fumbles for his boot where the blade is tucked away and finds it missing. He lets out a wordless noise of frustration. 

“Don’t worry, cowboy,” Arthur rumbles from above, apparently taking pity on him. John doesn’t know which he detests more. “You’ll get free long before any law shows up, but it’ll be long after I’m gone.” 

He tips his hat and lashes the reins with a bellowing “Get!”, startling the horses into motion. The coach is pulled onwards towards St. Denis, and John is left spitting and swearing in the dust as he’s forced to watch his score slip away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and concrit are always welcome! I strive to improve my writing of the characters and the world with every fic, and feedback is always a great way to know how I'm doing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alert the press, John has a ~~crush~~ grudge.

True to his word, or his parting words, at least, John is able to pick the knots free and escape the area before the law is even alerted. 

On the other hand, it takes significantly more time and a lot of alcohol for his wounded ego to recover from the whole mess.

So after a week of sulking, drinking, petty theft, a fist fight, and sniffing out a new lead, John finds himself camped out near Cumberland Falls. He lies stretched out on his stomach, pressed flat to the raised outcrop that overlooks the road and the Dakota River flowing lazily alongside it. Loose stones and gravel dig uncomfortably into his belly and thighs, but he deals with the discomfort for the sake of the meagre cover the spot provides. It’s not much, a few tufts of long grass and the odd shrub, but it’s more than the grassy verge of the road is able to offer, and at least ensures he isn’t going to be spotted too early. 

He can hear the rush of the water tumbling over the falls further down the road, and it will no doubt make the approach of the stagecoach harder to hear, but John is reassured that the noise will mostly cover the sound of any gunshots. 

And if this coach just so happened to be owned by an entirely different stage company running a completely different route than the last, it’s merely coincidence, and not that John’s bitter. The memory of his failed heist still brings a surge of raw emotion bubbling to the surface, the fury and humiliation most poignant among them. He tenses his jaw against the intrusive thoughts, the knowledge that he can’t drink them into silence in the middle of a job only aggravating his already foul mood. 

_ Arthur.  _

The name is never far from his thoughts. It serves as a fuel for his enduring resentment, but - most frustratingly of all - it fuelled another raging heat inside of him too. He could still conjure the sound of his name in that rumbling growl, still picture Arthur’s mouth providing its eager service, those blue eyes watching him with the intensity of a predator. He had even briefly pondered, whilst lying in bed in a dirty little inn with his recently spent cock still in his hand, what the man could achieve when he wasn’t focused on two tasks at once. 

John’s pulled from his thoughts by the trundle of carriage wheels and hooves, and startles when the stagecoach and several riders round the corner into sight. 

_ “Shit!” _ he swears, pushing himself up onto his knees. But there’s no chance. The carriage is already on top of him, and it will be long past him by the time he hops on Old Boy. The risk of losing his score, or his horse, or  _ himself _ into the river is too great to consider a hackneyed pursuit. 

He looks around wildly, desperate not to lose another coach. Could he jump from the outcrop onto the roof of the carriage? He would only have a few seconds to make the call. His focus snaps to the coach, and he locks eyes with the driver. 

John freezes, his stomach falling away. He knows he’s gaping, perhaps looking just as shocked, if not moreso, than Arthur, who can’t seem to look away anymore than John can. 

The carriage passes, rounds the trail, disappears out of sight, and John doesn’t move a muscle for a good several seconds after.

“God  _ damnit _ !” he snarls, and throws the first thing that comes to hand in his rage. His pocket watch smashes against the ground, but it does nothing to alleviate the fury and mortification. Because he’d seen it, the  _ amusement _ in Arthur’s eyes as the bastard sailed past him, hitting him like a physical blow. 

It takes a few minutes to compose himself, by which point John is left staring forlornly at the cracked silver timepiece. 

“Bastard owes me a new watch,” he grumbles, scooping it up and tucking it back into his pocket. As he mounts Old Boy and heads towards the nearest saloon, John wonders, not for the first time, if he should just hang up his guns and become a shepherd.   


* * *

When he’s once again sober enough to reason that fate isn’t picking on him specifically - ‘cause she’d be a pedantic, mean-ass bitch if she was, considering the other lowlifes John has met in the past - he figures it’s just cruel irony.

But that’s not enough to pacify him, because it still bothers John that Arthur being there, driving that coach for an entirely different company, doesn’t make any sense. 

So he decides to do some digging.

Thankfully, his reconnaissance doesn’t take him very far as he pushes himself up from his table in the corner of the empty saloon and wanders towards the bar. He slides a coin across the counter and receives a whisky in a silent exchange. 

“Hey, buddy,” he bids the bartender before the man can move away again. “You know of a big burly feller, light brown hair, blue eyes, looks like he could wrestle a bear, drives stagecoaches?” 

The man’s blank expression twitches with recognition at the mention of stagecoaches - or, perhaps, at the part about wrestling bears. Either way, John tries not to look too hopeful.

“Oh, Morgan. Arthur Morgan, ey?” the man asks, then frowns at John from beneath his thick, Spartan moustache. “Why you wanna know?” 

John rolls his shoulder in a careless manner, “Just curious. He almost ran me off the road once, seemed in a hurry to get someplace. Figured it was just ‘cause he was deliverin’ somethin’ important. But then saw him drivin’ a different coach. He an outlaw ‘round here or somethin’? Stealin’ stagecoaches?” 

The man laughs, his suspicion giving way to blind trust in the face of John’s supposed ignorance. John hides his smirk behind a bemused smile.

“No, no, not at all. He’s a good man he is. Wouldn’t wanna to mess with ‘im mind you, if you’re sore ‘bout that run in you mentioned,” the man says. 

“So, why’s he drivin’ different stages?” John presses, trying to keep his tone light and his writhing curiosity from seeping through.

“The man’s paid to do it, ‘course,” the bartender replies, looking at John as if he’d been dropped at birth. “The companies ‘round here are always hirin’ ‘im for some form of delivery or ‘other. Mostly cargo, sometimes people, ‘though he don’t much prefer those jobs where the wares talk back.” The man snorts at his own joke, and John feels slightly more puzzled than when he’d started this endeavour. 

He’s heard of hired guns, of course, though they’re usually employees of an established security company for operations like these, rather than your local gun-toting hicks. But he’s never heard of  _ drivers _ for hire.

“He must be some driver.” 

“Interestin’ly, not really,” the bartender laughs. “Definitely saw ‘im pop a wheel off once, and I wouldn’t wan’ ‘im to be my ride home after a rough night of drinkin’ that’s for sure.” 

John rubs his jaw, stubble rasping against his fingers. “Alright, thanks, friend,” he says with a nod, raising his shot glass and downing the bite of whisky. Sliding the glass back onto the bar, he gives the sticky surface a pat and heads for the door, mind already sifting through the new information.

\---

It turns out there’s not much more to learn about ‘Arthur Morgan’, much to John’s frustration. All he’s able to gather from the man at the general store and the owner of the stables is that he’s apparently a bit of a surly bastard with little to say, but polite all the same. 

It doesn’t quite match up to the Arthur Morgan that John had presumably met; all dry humour and devilish smirks, the bluest eyes he’d ever been transfixed by, and the deepest rumble of a laugh he could still feel in his bones hours after. 

It’s  _ aggravating.  _ But John still has a score to settle. One lost job he could skulk away from, but the second had brought with it too much indignity. He’s haunted by the glint of laughter in those eyes as they’d held his horrified stare. 

And he still owes John a new pocket watch. 

That’s how he ends up just north of Emerald Ranch, on a forest trail that’s too open and too close to Murfree territory for his comfort. His only consolation is the promise of payback, which has John crouching behind a rock near the roadside. It's the only spot of cover available, conveniently opposite the base of a stout cliff face which forces the path to narrow.

He’d heard rumour of gold nuggets being found in the walls of the Annesburg mine, likely deposited there from a long-dried up water channel, or so the theory went. But all John is interested in is the Blackwater stagecoach travelling from Annesburg that night. There is very little doubt in his mind that nothing short of valuable would bring the company out this far, and to Annesburg of all places. 

And this time he’s ready.

He peers out from behind rock, squinting along the path that leads north. There’s only the slightest sliver of moonlight to see by, and it does little to settle John’s nerves as the forest shifts restlessly around him. 

“C’mon,” he mutters, rocking on the balls of his feet, palm resting on the butt of his still holstered pistol. Finally, a distant sound pricks his attention, and John squints into the dark. There’s no lantern light to discern the carriage by, but the lumbering forms of two additional riders traversing through the dark behind the carriage is all John needs to know there’s something valuable being transported. 

He let’s them draw closer, and just when the carriage is about to pass through the narrowest part of the path, John steps out from behind the rock, firing two shots into the attending guards who fall down dead. The carriage horses jerk in fright at the noise, Arthur’s shout drowned out by their whinnies. He goes to urge them onwards, but before he can, John is pressing the barrel of the gun to his temple, pulling the hammer back with a purposeful  _ ‘click’.  _

“Remember me?” John smirks through his mask. 

“I-I don’t know you! I never saw you in my life, I swear, please don’t kill me!” 

John jerks his gun back, turning the man sharply by the shoulder. He swears. Whoever the man is, he’s certainly not Arthur. Rather than being met with a broad, heavy figure and a cocky smirk, it’s instead a willowy feller, padded out in a thick fur jacket he’s trying desperately to disappear into. 

John swears again, hopping off the side of the coach and kicking at the dirt in his frustration. If the man is so bloody brilliant and sought after, why isn’t he damn well transporting the only thing of value within a hundred miles that needs moving? 

“Goddamnit, Morgan!” he snaps. 

He almost completely forgets about the driver and the coach, until the man timidly clears his throat. John jerks his head around, glaring fiercely as the man shrinks back.

“S-so, can I go, mister?”

“No, you can’t go!” John snarls, incredulous. 

Sakes, what was he doing? Standing here cursing Arthur goddamn Morgan instead of robbing the coach. Instead of completing his  _ actual _ objective here. “Get down from there,” he growls, wrenching the man from the driver’s box by the lapels before taking his place. Grabbing the reins, he doesn’t spare the man a second look before he spurs the horses on at a quick pace. 

Thankfully, the usually clear valley roads are even more deserted this late in the evening, and John doesn’t see another living soul as he makes his escape. Even still, he doesn’t stop until he’s halfway across the Heartlands, turning off the road to a more secluded spot at the base of the rocky hills.

Once he’s confident there’s no law in pursuit or curious strangers to poke around, he sets about cutting the carriage horses free and sending them off into the plains with a shout. He’s watching the last one disappear into the darkness when Old Boy trots leisurely up to him, nudging his muzzle against John’s shoulder in greeting.

“Hey there, boy. Thought you’d finally done a runner on me,” he says with a smirk, rubbing the horse’s neck affectionately. With a few pats and a peppermint to placate the animal, he turns to the task of ransacking the coach. 

After rooting through the boot, carriage compartments, and the decoy lockbox for their meagre supplies, he eventually finds what he’s looking for stashed beneath the coach. 

He slides the small lockbox free of its slot and sets it down, the lock mechanism breaking after only a few strikes with the butt of his gun. John snorts at the flimsy security. It appears there is too much reliance on the box never being discovered rather than being broken into. 

Flipping open the lid, he squints at the contents. The moon provides little light, but something glints from inside the box all the same. Picking up one of the nuggets, he holds it up to try and see better, feeling the combination of smooth and rough edges against the pads of his fingers. 

He counts seven nuggets in total, something close to three-hundred dollars worth if he had to guess. It’s a good take, a great take, considering he only has himself and Old Boy to sustain. This could easily keep him well fed, watered - drunk - and housed for a good few months, if not more.

Yet even as he pockets his profits and mounts Old Boy on the back of an easy job well done, he can’t help but feel disappointed as he abandons the carriage and rides to the west. 

* * *

There has to come a point when he accepts that Dutch was right when he’d said John was like a dog with a bone. There is stubborn - hell,  _ Dutch _ is stubborn - but John, as has been expressed to him many times before, is  _ more _ than stubborn. 

He sinks his teeth into something and refuses to give an inch, growling at anyone who might dare impose something as heinous as a conflicting opinion on him. And, well, if John is the dog, then Arthur Morgan is most definitely the bone.

And goddamn if it doesn’t show. 

John doesn’t think he’s ever put this much preparation into any job in his life, not even that one bank heist in San Lorado during that season’s cattle drive, back when he was still running with Dutch. And all this just for a stagecoach transporting… something. Probably something valuable, he’s sure. 

And this time, John is going to be the one riding away with it. 

He lies in wait on a long stony slope overlooking the southern trail leading out of the East Grizzlies, the cliffside loose with gravel and crumbling slate. He toys with a stick of dynamite loosely between his fingers, mask already up over his nose in preparation. The light breeze is thick with the scent of pine and crisp with the bite of snow from further north, and it provides a tepid temperature as he lounges in the high noon sun. 

It’s another twenty minutes before he hears the approach of a carriage. 

The twittering and fluttering of birds between the trees quiets down, giving John enough warning to crawl to the edge of his stone perch and peer down at the advancing company. 

Only two riders come into view, trailed by the carriage which is forced to a crawling pace, even on the most accommodating roads in the mountainous region. The riders are chatting animatedly, unaware of the growing distance between themselves and the carriage, the draft horses labouring over the last steep incline before the level road that leads into John’s trap.

An excited grin stretches beneath his bandana.

He waits until the two riders are almost under him, then strikes the match. The fuse hisses as it sparks, and John quickly secures the explosive in a crevice before he scurries back, stones skittering down the slope as he drops down the side and into the bushes just off the track. He freezes when he hears the sudden roar of  _ that _ voice.

“Summers, MacGuire,  _ look out!” _

John imagines the men only have time to look up before the dynamite blows. The thunder of falling rocks, stone grinding against stone, is deafening as the rockslide tumbles down onto the path, pieced only by the shrill whinnies of the horses. 

Even after the noise dies down, leaving an unnatural quiet in its wake, John can still feel the ground trembling, his heart racing with exhilaration. 

“You boys ok?” Arthur calls, and John peers through the foliage to see the man standing beside the newly settled debris blocking his path. He can only see Arthur’s profile, but his lips are set in a grim line, brow furrowed in frustration, and perhaps also concern, as he receives no immediate response. 

“Lenny, Sean?” he shouts again. 

“We’re alright!” A voice, Lenny, finally calls back, coughing on the dust still hanging thick in the air. “The horses spooked, bolted with us for a moment there!” 

Arthur’s shoulders drop, relieved, and he nods his head with a grunt. 

“Good. Glad you’re alright, kid.” He then regards the road with a pinched expression. “Well, I ain’t gettin’ through here no more, that’s for sure.” He’s no doubt suspicious, John can tell by the way he furtively glances between the origin of the rockslide and the surrounding trees, his jaw set and body tense. Yet, even with the man poised in anticipation of an attack, John has to hold himself back from striking there and then. Perhaps there is the possibility of surprising him still, but he can’t risk Arthur’s companions scrambling over the rocks to assist him.

“What d’we do now, Mr Morgan?” A second voice calls, another young sounding lad with a thick Irish accent. 

Arthur takes off his hat to ruffle his hair as he regards the carriage, the horses whuffing impatiently. 

“Lemme turn this carriage around, there’s a road back there that goes past Moonstone pond,” he calls back. He’s in the process of unhooking the horses when two faces pop up over the debris, and John grits his teeth, annoyed that they’re still sticking around. He contemplates reaching for his gun, but sits back on his haunches with an irritable sigh instead. Arthur seemed fond of these two.

Lenny, a dark skinned lad, takes hold of the horses’ reins as they’re untethered from the carriage, while Sean, a pale, ginger-haired waif, assists Arthur in rocking the coach in incremental turns. It takes what feels like an age, but eventually, with gusty breaths, the men manage to turn the carriage around. 

“I’ll get the horses, you boys rest up a minute,” Lenny says, leading the horses into position. 

Both men lean against the side of the carriage, Sean slumping to the floor. He scoffs at Lenny, accepting the water flask Arthur offers him. “A true gentleman ye are. See y’were jumpin’ tae help us!” He takes several greedy mouthfuls of water until Arthur growls and snatches it back off him, cuffing the back of the Irishman’s head.

John can’t help but watch, intrigued by the interaction. Arthur’s lips are turned upwards despite his attempts to stifle it, and his eyes gleam with good humour. Like many other concerning emotions John hasn’t been able to explain lately, he feels relieved that he hadn’t killed the two boys. 

“All done,” Lenny announces, and Arthur pushes himself off the side of the stage, taking a deep drink of his flask before capping it again. 

“Alright, you two, get back on over to your horses and keep ridin’ the original route. We meet up at the fork south of Carmody Dell, y’hear?”

Lenny hesitates, even as Sean mockingly salutes and makes to clamber back over the rocks, pausing to look back at his companion. “Are y’comin’ or not?”

“You gonna be alright on your own?” Lenny directs to Arthur, and the older man claps him on the shoulder with an encouraging shove towards the rocks. 

“‘Course, I’ll be fine. Get goin’” He orders, and at last the men do as instructed, climbing back over the rocks to their mounts. 

“See you soon, Arthur!” Lenny calls.

“Try not tae get robbed, a’right?” 

Arthur snorts and doesn’t bother to respond, climbing up onto the wagon as the sounds of spurred horses and excited chatter fade off. 

With Arthur now alone, John makes his move. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and concrit are always welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

The numbness which has settled in John’s legs causes him to stagger, but he manages to keep his footing as he charges from the bushes and puts himself in front of the wagon, blocking its path. His pistol is already drawn, pointed squarely at Arthur’s chest between the great tossing heads of the anxious cart horses. Arthur sits stiffly in the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the reins with a white-knuckled grip, and John grins in triumph when he realises Arthur hadn’t had time to draw his weapon. He pulls down his bandana, and Arthur’s eyes widen in surprise. 

It sends a tingle of satisfaction down John’s spine. 

He sees Arthur’s hands twitch, and John feels a flicker of uncertainty that the man might just try and run him down with the horses. He holds his breath and draws his shoulders back, standing resolute and staring the older man down in challenge. Daring him. 

After a tense moment, Arthur drops the reins and puts his hands up with a deep sigh. 

“Coulda just asked me to dinner, ‘stead of goin’ through all this trouble,” he mutters. 

“Robbin’ you ain’t no trouble at all,” John counters, smug. He gestures with the barrel of his gun and Arthur slides down from his seat without protest. Skirting around the horses, gun still trained on the other man, John wastes no time forcing Arthur to his knees with a knock to the back of his legs, sending the man down with a satisfying grunt. Tossing Arthur’s holstered weapons to the side, he pulls out the short length of rope he’d brought for this very purpose, and ties the man’s hands behind his back.  _ Tight. _

Arthur huffs like a frustrated bull, frowning at the taut pull in his shoulders. John steps back to admire his work, then turns to climb up onto the wagon.

“You’re just gonna leave?” 

The genuine surprise in Arthur’s low tone makes John pause, one foot resting on the wheel hub. He looks back over his shoulder with a frown. Arthur remains kneeling where he’d left him, looking right back at him from beneath the rim of his hat. 

“What’d you expect?” 

Arthur’s chuckle is low and good humoured. “Thought you might like your little extra from last time.” 

John’s eyebrows jump up, the suggestion hitting him low in the stomach. He hadn’t even considered… 

He regards Arthur with a dark expression, suspicion warring with his imprudent interest.

“I don’t take nothin’ like that from noone,” he retorts. 

Arthur rolls his eyes, rotating his shoulders and grimacing as the ropes restrict the movement. 

“Didn’t say nothin’ about  _ takin’ _ , John. _ ” _

The way his name rolls thick and teasing off the man’s tongue does something inexplicable to his stomach, like it’s rolling all about itself, and he can feel his already tenuous grip on his common sense weakening. 

He stares hard at the man; bound, unharmed, and, for all intents and purposes, helpless. 

It’s then John knows for certain that he’s an idiot. 

“Why’re you so eager?” He asks, genuinely curious as he sidles closer, giving the man’s leg a nudge with the toe of his boot. 

“Maybe it’ll sweeten you up to leavin’ me a little cash to get to town,” Arthur offers as an explanation.

John lets out a slow breath, aware that his cock is already stirring with interest against the fabric of his union suit. His mind had barely been his own the last few weeks, Arthur taking up a troubling portion of his focus even when he’d tried drinking his frustrations away. Rather than clear his mind of the man, it had only tilted his thoughts towards the licentious, leaving him reminiscing about the weight of Arthur against his front, his large hands squeezing the meat of his ass, and his mouth, shameless and unapologetic.

His eyes rove over the man in question, his white shirt damp with sweat and clinging to his shoulders and sides from the effort of moving the carriage. His eyes are already dark with intent, and John feels the last of his resolve crumble. 

“No tricks,” he warns, even as his voice pitches with anticipation. He grabs Arthur by the collar and pulls him up with just enough force to get him onto his feet, letting the man stagger along behind him as he leads them to the nearest tree. His coat pads his back against the bark, allowing John to recline comfortably while Arthur drops heavily to his knees between his legs.

“We’re at risk of this becoming a pattern,” John remarks, willing Arthur not to notice the breathier rasp to his voice as he stares down at the larger man. Whether he does or not is unclear, since Arthur doesn’t mention it, instead just letting his eyes slowly stray down John’s body with an intensity that leaves a trail of heat in its wake. John shifts when those eyes come to rest on the notable tent in his trousers, before glancing up to meet his own with no small amount of amusement. It strangely doesn’t bother John when Arthur’s giving him that look from his knees. 

“You’ll need to give me a hand here, cowboy,” Arthur hums, and John doesn’t want to think about how good that nickname sounds when directed at him. He toys thoughtfully with the front of his trousers.

“How eager are you, again?” he queries, voice a low drawl. 

“Not enough to beg, if that’s what you’re thinkin’” is the dry response, and a genuine snort of mirth escapes John. Fair enough, he thinks.

His trousers slacken as he frees the buttons and shoves the fabric down just enough. The lower buttons of his union suit go next before he’s biting back a pleased sigh as he withdraws his cock. Eyes dark with lust, he watches attentively as Arthur shifts on his knees, briefly meeting John’s gaze before dropping back down. 

Releasing a deep exhale through his nose, John squeezes his semi-hard length and gives it a teasing stroke, drawing the foreskin back to reveal the glossy tip. He feels a flicker of excitement when Arthur wets his lips in response. 

It sends an unexpected thrill through John when he gets to knock that hat from Arthur’s head for a second time. The older man’s expression twists briefly into an irritable scowl, but it’s ignored in favour of John burying his hand into that short honey-brown hair, petting until Arthur’s expression softens to something more curious. That at least spurs John on, his other hand sliding back to grip the base of his cock. 

“Well?” He murmurs, and Arthur complies with the gentle pressure against his scalp, letting John guide him forward until the flushed tip presses against the soft pillow of his lips. There’s the briefest resistance, a suspended moment where John gets to breathlessly admire the colour of Arthur’s lips against his heated sex, before Arthur’s mouth slowly opens and John slides home with a feral sound. 

There’s not a breath of hesitation before Arthur is succumbing to his own enthusiasm, a husky groan thrumming low in the back of his throat. His mouth works John a few inches deep before he withdraws, swallowing at the tip and repeating, moving only gradually down John’s length with every bob of his head. He can’t begin to guess if it’s Arthur merely warming up, preparing himself to take him all, or if the man is actually brassy enough to  _ tease,  _ but John can’t find it in him to complain. The slick tight glide of Arthur’s lips around him, every cheek-hollowing suction, has him hissing out a pent up breath. When Arthur’s lips catch beneath the head of his cock and he  _ sucks _ \- sucks like he’s trying to draw John’s very soul out from some dark crevice inside of him, just edging this side of painful - his efforts are rewarded with a deep guttural moan of pleasure.

As the intense pull of suction eases, Arthur soothes the sensitive flesh with the flat of his tongue, pulling stifled noises from John at the warring sensations. After a few moments of teasing, Arthur sinks back onto John’s cock before releasing him completely with an obscene noise. 

His lips are red and shiny with saliva, complimenting the light flush on the man’s cheeks as his chest rises and falls with laboured breaths. 

“Giving up already?” John queries, voice rough with his barely tempered arousal. 

Arthur snorts, flexing his jaw which is likely aching. “You’re a little more prepared this time, is all,” he smirks.

John makes an affronted noise, about to defend his prior performance when Arthur leans forward, silencing his complaint with a lick to the head of his cock. Without a hand to steady the now fully thickened length, Arthur’s attempts to mouth the tip prove difficult, and he earns a smear of precum across his cheek for his efforts. For a moment John is fixated by the way the pearlescent fluid glistens on Arthur’s sun-kissed cheek, and he has the inexplicable urge to gently rub it into his skin. He lifts his gaze just a fraction, and is immediately pinned by the glint of two blue eyes which boldly hold his stare.

With Arthur’s tongue acting as a cradle for his cock, John’s able to watch Arthur guide his mouth neatly back around him, slowly sinking down until his nose buries itself into the coarse dark hair at the base. John holds him there with a light grip in his hair, breathing shaky as Arthur swallows around him. He feels Arthur’s heavy exhalation through his nose sweep across his thighs in a titillating gust.

“Fuck, Arthur,” he groans without meaning to. Arthur inhales sharply, but moves on too quickly for John to really notice as he begins to rocks his hips into Arthur’s mouth, feeling the man move in time with the action.

He fists Arthur’s hair in warning of his impending release, the otherworldly pressure making his sac feel tight and unbearably hot. As if encouraged, Arthur releases his length to drag his lips along John’s cock, mouthing at the vein underneath as he makes his way back up. As he wraps his lips back around the sensitive head, John can’t help but look down, watching helplessly, hips jolting irregularly, as Arthur moves up and down his cock like he’s eager to taste John all over again. Then Arthur looks up from beneath his lashes, locking eyes with John without faltering once in his movements. John closes eyes and tips his head back, unable to hold Arthur’s gaze as his orgasm barrels closer.

He gasps and jerks his hips forward at the first lick of ineffable pleasure, and he must catch Arther by surprise as the man gags. He means to apologise, but can’t form the words around his gasping breaths as he chokes back a sob of pleasure. He feels it then, the swiftly approaching precipe, and his hips thrust again in anticipation. Two firm hands grip his waist and pin him easily to the tree, and John’s eyes snap open, his heart leaping in horror. But it’s a fraction too late as a terrible wave of pleasure crashes over him and leaves him drowning.

He scrabbles helplessly at the tree behind him, trying to anchor himself through the haze of disconnection that leaves his mind floating and his legs weak. But through it all, those two strong hands on his hips hold firm, keeping him from falling. As he claws his way back to some sense of clarity, tension coils taut in his limbs, and in response he feels a hand pull away, leaving a heated brand in its wake. 

He means to move, but the glint of polished steel has his body locking up, and John can’t help but feel a sense of  _ betrayal _ that this is how Arthur is going to kill him. Before he can react, Arthur plunges the blade through fabric and deep into the tree, a hair’s breadth from his hip. 

Knee’s quaking, John releases a shaking breath as he sags against the tree, staring down at the knife pinned through the loose waistband of his trousers and his coat, fixing him in place. He stares almost vacantly at the knife before looking up to Arthur who stands over him in a manner far too similar to their first meeting, wolfish grin and all.

“Almost forgot to return your knife,” Arthur says with a distinctive new rasp to his voice that inspires a traitorous rush of heat in John’s stomach. The man gives the handle of the blade a wiggle, but it sticks fast. “That should keep you outta trouble for a little while.”

“Fuck sake,” John mutters, head knocking back against the tree. Arthur chuckles, wiping the back of his hand across his flushed lips. A little part of John revels in satisfaction when the man forgets to wipe the smear of precum from his cheek. 

Stooping down, Arthur collects his hat and his pistol, occasionally glancing in John’s direction as he tries to shimmy the knife free. But whether it’s the angle or the strength in which it was planted, John doesn’t have any luck. 

“Until next time, cowboy,” Arthur calls to him, hoisting himself up onto the stagecoach. 

John looks on in dismay, uncaring of his state of undress, as he’s forced to watch Arthur Morgan ride off with his score.  _ Again. _

* * *

Finding out information about stagecoaches is easy enough, if you’re able to find, bribe, and threaten the right person, but it’s a lot more difficult tracking down a specific  _ driver _ _,_ especially when they seemed to have a tendency to float on the wind.

But he’d managed, even if it had cost him almost the entirety of his last - successful - score in bribes. And now Arthur Morgan is transporting  _ moonshine _ of all things. 

John knows he can make a profit off it, but compared to jewellery or gold or cash, it always proved more hassle to shift than he was usually inclined to deal with. But he’d heard on good authority that the moonshine was being moved out of Lemoyne with the best driver available, and  _ only _ the best driver available, and that was enough for John.

Still, even as he hides amongst a copse of trees near the roadside, mounted on Old Boy in preparation as the stallion grazed, a voice of reason, which sounds suspiciously like Dutch, hisses in his ear.

John will readily admit he can be a fool at times, but he isn’t  _ stupid _ . He  _ knows _ he should cut his losses. Knows he should move onto homesteads or rustling cattle for a while to put space between him and the recent slough of stagecoach hold-ups. Knows attempting to strike the same target twice, let alone five times, was bound to get him recognised, probably caught.  _ And yet _ . John still can’t let it go, can’t unfurl his fist from it’s death grip on the indignity and humiliation that had him pacing long into the night. The frustration which had him perking up at the faintest sound of carriage wheels, scrutinising the drivers as if Arthur Morgan is just going to be conveniently sat there with his self-righteous smirk and broad shoulders.

He’s dragging his feet through his own mullish self-reflection when Old Boy jerks his head up, startling John from his thoughts. 

“Woah, what’s the matter, buddy?” He murmurs, patting the stallion’s broad neck, but then he hears it too - shouting, distant but audible. And then...gunshots. 

A lot of gunshots. 

It takes only a moment for John to parse through the possibilities, and he’s already spurring Old Boy along the road by the time he reaches the most probable. Arthur has already been held-up. 

He can’t begin to make sense of the thoughts racing through his mind as he pushes Old Boy as fast as the Hungarian Halfbred can go. Images flash through his mind of Arthur injured, perhaps bound and beaten. The fury and indistinct burn of something else at the thought of Arthur on his knees. The unfathomable hollowness of pulling up only to find Arthur dead. 

He breaks from the trees and into the open meadows of Bolger Glade, pistol in hand as he pulls Old Boy to a harsh stop meters from a stationary covered wagon. 

“Give up, asshole! We’re the Lemoyne Rai-”

He arrives just in time to witness Arthur cave the skulls of three men with three deadly-precise shots without even the barest flinch. His pistol is trained on John in the next second, and John feels his stomach drop at the sight - though not in fear. Instead, something primal surges up in him at the sight of Arthur Morgan standing with men bloody and dead at his feet, red spattered across his shirt, a fresh, dripping wound across his chin, and his eyes a storm of dark and unrepentant  _ violence. _

John holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender, his breath catching oddly when that calm ferocity shifts and softens with recognition. 

“Sorry ‘bout your boys,” Arthur says roughly after a tense moment, and John can hear the sharp edge of adrenaline in his voice. He dismounts slowly, movements cautious as he approaches like Arthur is a horse still at risk of kicking.

“Weren’t my boys,” he answers, and has to ponder the twitch in Arthur’s expression, if it truly is relief at the correction.

John raises his pistol and watches Arthur’s eyes widen fractionally just before he fires.

A terse breath forces its way past Arthur’s lips, and he watches the hidden fourth assailant fall at his feet. John doesn’t contemplate the warmth he feels when Arthur smiles fractionally, head dipping with an appreciative nod. 

The moment is broken by the thunder of hooves. They both tense as riders approach from the same direction John had, and they quickly recognise the local law from Rhodes. 

“Shit,” John hisses, wondering if he can still make an escape if he pushes Old Boy hard enough. He feels a hand on his shoulder, large and heavy and planting him easily in place.

“Stay,” Arthur says, and John looks at him incredulously. “Trust me, ok?” The man regards John with a look he can only describe as resolute, and it’s reassuring in a way. John nods, despite his better judgement, despite the voice that tells him to run and run hard.

“Gentlemen,” the front rider, a middle aged man with a neat dark beard and sideburns, addresses them, a sheriff badge pinned to his nickel-grey vest. “Mind explainin’ what’s going on here?”

“Afternoon, Sheriff. Name’s Arthur Morgan, I’m a contractor with the Blackwater Stage Company, transporting this seized moonshine on behalf of the St. Denis Police Department. I’m just takin’ my papers out my pocket,” he informs them as he reaches into his jeans. 

The sheriff dismounts, his men remaining on horseback with their guns loosely aimed. Arthur offers the man what John assumes is his identification papers, and the Sheriff skims through them with moderate interest.

“Well, this all seems to be in order.” He pauses, eyes shifting to John who tries not to tense under the scrutiny. “And who is he?”   
  
“My partner,” Arthur grunts, and John hopes he doesn’t look half as shocked as he is. “I trust him to watch my back a damn sight more than these hired guns. I’m sure you can see why.” He nods further down the trail to two bodies slumped at the side of the road, additional security that John hadn’t even been aware of. Apparently they’d been the first to be picked off. 

The sheriff gives John another once-over before nodding and returning Arthur’s documents. “I’ll have some of my men escort you to the border to deter any more trouble. These Lemoyne Raiders are quite the nuisance,” he grumbles, the latter part more to himself than anyone else. 

“That’s much appreciated, sir,” Arthur replies as he pulls himself back up onto the wagon. Two of the deputies break away from the group and take position slightly behind the vehicle on either side. 

Arthur leans over to look down at John who remains standing awkwardly by the wagon.

“You gonna get up here, cowboy?” John starts, blinking owlishly up at Arthur. Thankfully his body seems to work on instinct, clambering up into the shotgun seat next to Arthur. Old Boy follows leisurely beside the wagon as Arthur spurs the cart horses on to a lively trot, giving a courteous wave to the sheriff and remaining deputies as they pass by. 

The wagon rocks and sways on the uneven roads as they travel, the conversation of the two deputies muffled by distance and the rumbling of the wheels. John picks at his sleeve, nervous.

“Relax, you’re fine.” Arthur’s voice is low so not to be overheard, and amused in a way that rankles him. John narrows his eyes.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, knowing he sounds petulant when Arthur snorts. They fall into silence for a while, the New Hanover border and their time to part ways growing ever closer.

“You ever thought about going straight?” Arthur asks suddenly. “Taking on honest work?” He clarifies when John looks at him blankly.

The younger man snorts, “And what kind of work would I possibly be good for? I’m more likely to rustle cattle than protect it. Ain’t built a fence or milked a goat in my life, and I ain’t too keen to learn.” 

Arthur smirks, and John’s suspicious of that glint in his eye. “Well, I may just be lookin’ for a partner, not easy findin’ capable guns around here, and you seem like the dedicated type.” 

John coughs, averting his eyes and fighting the heat of embarrassment at the jab. He must look uncertain, because Arthur’s voice drops a pitch lower to a familiar, cavernous rumble. “It has some pretty good benefits.”

The sudden blood rush south leaves John feeling lightheaded, and he clears his throat to buy him a few moments to consider Arthur’s proposition. It certainly wasn’t what he’d been expecting when he’d set out this morning in another attempt to rob Arthur, and a part of him is still suspicious of the man’s motives. But he also has to consider the uncertain questions this whole implausible situation dredges to the surface. Does he really want to go straight? Try a life he’s never known, a life that could very well be impossible for a man like him? In the end, he supposes there’s nothing wrong with having a taste of that life before it’s inevitably snatched away from him.

“Can’t turn down an offer like that, can I?” He murmurs.

“Well then, partner.” Arthur takes one hand off the reins and offers it to John. “Arthur Morgan,” he says with a smirk.

John can’t prevent the matching curl to his lips. “John Marston,” he returns, clasping the man’s hand in a firm grip. His hand is given a squeeze before it's released again.

He sits back, a bit overwhelmed by the development of the last hour as he lets the gentle sway of the wagon distract him. Then a thought strikes him.

“You owe me a new watch,” he scowls, surprising Arthur who looks at him, eyebrows raised with a puzzled expression. He scans John’s face for a moment before he snorts.

“I don’t owe you shit.”   
  
John slumps back with a glower as the man laughs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm thinking this might become a series. I believe this 'verse has the potential for more hijinks and romance for our boys, but we'll see! I hope you've enjoyed the fic!
> 
> Comments and concrit are always welcome <3


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